


The Edge of the Night

by NortheasternWind



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And he doesn't like it, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF!Aziraphale, M/M, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale is a killer at heart, aziraphale thinks he's a terrible person :(, the point is the talk afterwards, the violence is completely off-screen lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-08-11 00:37:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20144659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NortheasternWind/pseuds/NortheasternWind
Summary: A demon with a grudge from the Fall comes for Aziraphale. Rather to Crowley's surprise, Aziraphale has been expecting it and is prepared, and he learns some concerning things about the angel in their discussion of why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm literally almost done with the second part I just have to write transitions and a bit of the ending sdkfjhsdkjhf

Most days after the Apocanope, Crowley and Aziraphale are in constant contact. For quite some time (in human terms, at least) they glide by on the thrill of victory, floating on the cloud of knowing that for the first time in 6000 years the world is their oyster: if they wish to see each other every day, they can, and for the most part they do, simply because.

Unfortunately, this is not one of those days.

Crowley hasn’t quite moved into the bookshop, or Aziraphale into Crowley’s flat, or both of them into some other home. Something about their constant, millenia-long dance has changed: the lure of danger is gone, but so too is the fear and guilt that come part and parcel with fraternization. Now that there is no need to worry about Heaven or Hell or what anyone might see, the push and pull of _anywhere you want to go_ and _you go too fast for me_ no longer elicits a desperate longing. Now their dance brings them joy, sets their hearts beating: they may dance as long as they want, and why rush something that they haven’t been allowed to enjoy all their lives?

So, Crowley drops Aziraphale off at the bookshop, says his goodbyes, flirtatiously implies that he’ll see the angel tomorrow, and drives home.

By the time he arrives, the voicemail is already waiting for him.

It’s a little strange. Aziraphale knows his mobile number, and knows that Crowley has few compunctions about answering it while driving. Perhaps he simply wanted to leave Crowley something nice to come home to. The thought warms his ice-cold serpentine heart.

“_Er, also_,” Aziraphale’s voice says, and at once Crowley frowns. That is Aziraphale’s urgent voice. “_If, er, perchance, anyone comes, ah, looking for me— do just tell them I’ve popped on out of the country, dear, it’s not worth getting hurt over. Not that there’s any danger involved, Heavens no! You just stay right there in London, dear boy, and send anyone with unfinished business to me so I can clean that up while I’m here. Yes. Well. I’ll see you later, Crowley._”

This has what Crowley assumes is the exact opposite effect that Aziraphale desired when he left this message. “Also” implies that this is the second message, so Crowley forces down his misgivings and listens to the first:

“_Crowley! Good evening! Er— Sorry to bother you so soon after today, but well— I’ve got a bit of an— urgent business trip, you see. Rather short notice, I know. Um— so if you could just— just poke your head into the shop every day or so until I get back, make sure nothing’s stolen, you know— I’d be much obliged. Nothing to worry about, be back in a jiffy. Good evening!_”

It’s probably a good five minutes before Crowley realizes he has been standing with his hand frozen over his answering machine.

_Urgent business trip. Nothing to worry about. You stay right there in London, dear._

“Bollocks,” Crowley rasps, and he turns on his heel and sprints out of the flat the way he came.

He makes it to A. Z. Fell and Co. in record time, which is an achievement after fleeing Hell’s enforcers during ArmaGoFuckYourself. The place looks perfectly normal, except for the sign plastered to the front door that says “Away On Business.”

Crowley, naturally, ignores this, snapping his fingers to open the lock. It obliges him happily: Aziraphale didn’t put a ward on the door, which in hindsight rather makes sense if he truly wanted Crowley to visit while he was gone.

“Aziraphale!” he calls, which is a mistake. It’s the same thing he said last time he forced the doors open, the same thing he said when Hell came to Earth and took his angel from him, and like Pavlov’s dog Crowley’s concern begins to morph into something more urgent.

“Aziraphale!” he calls again, hoping that this time will be different: this time, his angel will answer him. “Aziraphale, if you’re here you better—”

He stops.

At this point Crowley has spent so much time in this building that his own demonic essence has seeped into the walls, soaking the floors and coating the furniture like dust. Crowley is a part of the bookshop, now, which makes it conveniently easy to tell when another demon has been inside it.

Another demon.

Crowley sternly orders his human heart to stop distracting him, beating so hard like that. Everything is exactly where Crowley last saw it, which means that either Aziraphale left before his visitor arrived or he managed to oust the intruder and set the bookshop to rights afterwards. He’s probably fine.

For now.

“Stay in London,” Crowley mutters to himself as he steps further inside, looking for any sign of what’s happened. “Just stay in London, right where you are, dear, and I’ll handle it all on my own! Just like I handled Paris, and those spies, and all those other demons that have come after me and that I’ve beaten back in the past, oh yes, don’t worry your silly little head about it Crowley— Bugger it all, there’s nothing here.”

There isn’t. Aziraphale must have left in quite a hurry. Crowley stands in the back room of the bookshop for quite some time, winding his way through his thoughts:

Every muscle, every nerve in him burns to go after Aziraphale, to see that he doesn’t try to face this danger by himself. He must protect Aziraphale: if anyone has a reason for existing, that’s his. He walks this earth because if he didn’t, Aziraphale would be alone, and no one would protect him. Not humans, not Heaven, and not God.

But he doesn’t know where Aziraphale is, and he’d thought— he thought that after Saturday there would be no more secrets between them, no important secrets anyway, and Aziraphale deliberately failed to tell him where he was going. Aziraphale is trying to protect him, and Crowley doesn’t know whether to be frustrated or frightened.

Aziraphale is definitely the better fighter of the two of them, and braver, and they both know it. But oh, how that knowledge stings.

He could find Aziraphale. It wouldn’t be impossible. But Aziraphale is probably making himself hard to find, and if Crowley finds him he may lead the danger right to his angel’s doorstep.

It burns. Every atom of his corporation vibrates with energy, with the need to go. But Crowley leaves the bookshop, locking it behind him, and drives home.

He’ll wait. Either Aziraphale will defeat his pursuer or Crowley’s nerves will give out eventually, but the situation isn’t urgent yet. Crowley will trust in Aziraphale, and wait.

* * *

About a week later, Crowley enters his flat after another fruitless visit to the bookshop when something gets itself around his neck from behind.

Crowley can’t breathe, which isn’t itself a problem since oxygen is largely optional for demons, but the reason he can’t breathe is because his throat is burning burning dragging him down—

“Where is Aziraphale?” a voice hisses, right next to his ear.

“Hnngk,” Crowley answers lamely, choking on his own retort. Stars burst behind his eyes: he’s probably looking at the ceiling right now, but he can’t see it because the pain is simply too much.

“Where is Aziraphale?” the demon repeats, pulling on the garrote. It feels like a simple bolt of cloth, but Satan’s bollocks it hurts and Crowley couldn’t answer even if he had the use of his damn tongue because he can’t remember his own name through the flame—

“Where is Aziraphale?!” the demon demands, and at this point Crowley can take no more: he claws at the makeshift noose around his neck, makes a pitiful whine when it burns his fingers in response, and finally his captor seems to understand the problem.

The garrote lifts from his throat and Crowley feels a foot in his back, throwing him forward so his head cracks against the corner of the table. He tumbles to the ground in a lump, groans, and has just enough time to wish he was a little further away before his assailant puts their hands on him again.

With a pop Crowley reappears on the opposite end of the room, which is perhaps not the smartest place to flee to, but it does give him a few moments to right himself while his unwanted visitor looms.

“Where is Aziraphale?” they say.

“Ngk,” Crowley says in response, in lieu of any insult to his visitor’s intelligence or some daring refusal to betray his best friend, because while the inside of his throat probably wasn’t burned it certainly feels as though it was.

His intruder is definitely a demon; they’ve got that Hellish smell, now that Crowley is of a mind to make certain. Their hair is matted beyond (mundane) repair, and their hands—

Crowley swallows. Seems it was indeed a white cloth of some sort they were using to throttle him: it hangs from their hand now, the skin on their fingers bubbling and popping under the unmistakable sacred heat. Their other hand and even their cheeks bear evidence of the same.

“Hhgk,” he says, meaning _have you been rubbing that thing against your face?_

“Where is Aziraphale?”

Satan, they’re determined. Crowley holds up one hand in surrender, to buy himself time, and rubs his throat with the other hand. Aziraphale instructed him to simply tell any intruders he was out of the country, but Crowley doubts they’ll be satisfied with that. And he’s not certain he can speak now even if he wants to.

No talking his way out of this one. An ominous drumming begins to pound in Crowley’s chest.

Then the worst possible thing that could happen happens. The phone rings.

It’s not that Crowley doesn’t get calls from all sorts of people. If car insurance companies can find his number, then so can telemarketers, politicians, polling companies, and random strangers who didn’t quite get their friends’ numbers right. But most of his calls are from Aziraphale, who does in fact know his number well enough to dial it from an actual phone and not a mobile contact list, and so statistically speaking if Crowley’s phone rings the person on the other end is probably Aziraphale.

And Crowley is now on the wrong side of the room.

He lunges for the receiver, but the intruder senses his dismay and reaches it first.

“Hello?” the demon answers, swatting idly at Crowley with the angelic cloth and smiling when he reflexively shies away from it.

To Crowley’s horror, the voice that answers is indeed no stranger.

“_Well, excuse you!_” Aziraphale’s voice cries, just loud enough for Crowley to hear. The demon giggles in response and—

Vanishes into the receiver.

“_Oh dear_,” Aziraphale says, as Crowley launches himself after them. But it’s too late: Aziraphale hangs up, and the connection slams shut before he can squeeze himself through.

With a strangled howl of rage Crowley hurls the receiver away, tearing it from the base with his demonic strength. He’s so stupid! Why, why would he leave his phone there, after the last time Aziraphale called at a bad moment? Why does this keep happening?

How could he be so careless?

Aziraphale is a Principality, a prince among angels, and his assailant is the lowliest of the demons. He will be alright. He must be alright. But Crowley will never, ever forgive himself for putting his best friend in danger, even for a second.

He pounds his fist helplessly against the ground. That demon is with Aziraphale right now, as he mopes uselessly on the ground. In five minutes either the demon or Aziraphale will be dead, or worse. His angel is fighting for his life this very moment, and Crowley can do nothing but wait because Crowley has always been weak.

He punches the ground again, just because, but it doesn’t do him any good. It only makes his knuckles hurt nearly as much as his chest.

Crowley slumps to the ground and tenderly touches his own throat, hissing at the resulting burn. Whatever that cloth was, it boiled away the better part of his power and gave him an injury only an angel can take back. If Aziraphale doesn’t come back, Crowley might never speak again.

His tongue has always been his greatest tool, but he would gladly trade it to guarantee his angel’s safety.


	2. Chapter 2

An indeterminate amount of time later (because it’s difficult to tell time when one is sleeping, and demons have more difficulty waking up in a timely manner than humans, especially when injured) Crowley wakes up to the sound of the doorbell.

Please, Crowley thinks, burrowing deeper into his blankets. Please, please let it be him, don’t let it be a fucking mailman or that demon or another angel come to give me my turn, for Satan’s sake, please. He debates the merits of retrieving his stock of holy water, but decides it’s more likely to be an angel than a demon, and in that case he’s safer leaving it where it is.

“Crowley?” a familiar, wonderful voice calls. “Crowley, it’s me! Are you alright? If you don’t answer I’m going to let myself in—”

Crowley flails, uncaring of the fatigue that takes him, tearing free of the covers and diving out of bed. His visitor must hear the commotion and find it alarming, because he hears the door open and footsteps hurry across the flat and there— there stands Aziraphale, with his coat and his curly blond hair and his stupid trousers as though nothing in the world has happened to him—

His beautiful features twist in horror, and he rushes forward, kneeling to meet Crowley where the demon is lifting himself off the floor. “Crowley! What on Earth— Oh, Crowley, I told you to—allow me, dear, that’s it…”

Crowley has half a mind to ask him to please shut the door first, but then Aziraphale is cradling his face in his hands and all thought leaves him. “Oh, my dear Crowley, I thought— but of course you wouldn’t, would you, you’ve always protected me even when there was no need— I should have known—”

“Hhhhn,” Crowley manages, somehow still feeling a little distressed even though all his problems are over now that Aziraphale is here. He reaches out and takes fistfuls of the angel’s coat in his hands, eyes searching for any signs of damage. “Hhh…”

Aziraphale shushes him, taking Crowley’s hands in his. He closes his eyes and— and presses his lips to Crowley’s fingers, and Crowley barely notices that the fading pain there vanishes entirely because that’s just about the most forward thing Aziraphale has done since lunch at the Ritz—

“Oh, my poor, dear Crowley…”

And then he reaches out and tenderly brushes his fingers against Crowley’s throat, and Crowley nearly chokes, because if Aziraphale kisses him there he’s going to discorporate—

No such luck. Aziraphale’s touch is like a blessedly cool wind, soothing the burns away until Crowley’s vocal cords begin to obey his commands again.

“What the fuck,” he says, instead of anything sensible like ‘thanks’ or ‘hello.’

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale says fretfully, placing his hands on Crowley’s shoulders and examining him for any further injuries. His attention is purely utilitarian, but Crowley feels his cheeks heat in response nonetheless. “I truly didn’t mean to worry you. I had everything under control. I’m so sorry—”

“You had everything under control?” Crowley’s voice still has something of a raspy quality to it, but he’ll take what he can get at this point. “You had everything under control but all you could tell me was that someone’s after you and you’ve left the damn country?!”

“I’m sorry!” Aziraphale cries. Apparently satisfied with his appraisal of Crowley’s corporation, he removes his hands from Crowley’s shoulders so he can wring them instead. “I really should have known better! I thought, oh, if he doesn’t know where I’ve gone—”

“Why in the world would you assume a demon would accept that?”

“I’m sorry! I was wrong! Next time I’ll— I’ll—”

Crowley clutches at the angel’s lapels and collapses against his chest, as though he’ll fall without the support. Aziraphale’s wild look of regret and guilt doesn’t suit him at all—Crowley’s injuries are nothing compared to his helplessness, and it wouldn’t do to let the misunderstanding continue. “It doesn’t matter. I thought I’d killed you. I swore I’d never let anything happen to you, and I thought I’d just handed you over to them on a silver platter.”

Aziraphale’s expression goes through several complicated transformations—not that Crowley can see them, with his own face currently buried in Aziraphale’s chest. Instead he simply feels a tentative hand curl into his hair, and feels so utterly safe that he nearly misses what Aziraphale says next:

“I’m so sorry, my dear. I really—I truly was prepared, you know. You’ve always gone out of your way to protect me, but I thought—I thought that this time, I could protect myself, and you could...”

Aziraphale stalls on the next word, sputtering for a few seconds and then giving up. His shoulders drop as he exhales, but the imploring look he’s giving Crowley when the demon looks up does not change.

Crowley has always been weak for that look.

“Shook ‘em off, have you?” he says instead, and it’s worth it to see his angel’s face brighten at the concession.

“Oh yes, quite permanently,” Aziraphale answers. “Personal grudge, you see.”

Crowley doesn’t like the sound of the word permanently, so he focuses on the other glaring issue with this answer. “A grudge? Who could possibly have a grudge against you? Besides Upstairs, I mean.”

Aziraphale shifts uncomfortably. Crowley becomes acutely aware that he is still nearly in the angel’s lap. “That’s… that’s just it, actually. Oh, sod it, I hope you have wine in here, because I would really much prefer to be drunk during this conversation.”

Aziraphale gently eases Crowley off of himself and stands, and something in Crowley sharpens at his words. The urge to protect Aziraphale, not only from demons but from the past and from himself is maddening, but if they drink Crowley might forget to ask again what happened. “Did you do something?”

“No! No, I didn’t…”

The angel wrings his hands nervously, lips pressed together. It’s his considering face, the face he makes when he is afraid.

Crowley feels himself soften, despite everything. He pushes himself to his feet. “Listen, angel…”

“It’s nothing like that,” Aziraphale says quickly. “Only— I’m sure I don’t have to ask if you remember the Fall, do I?”

Crowley can’t help the full-body shudder that passes through him in response, and that’s really all the answer Aziraphale needs.

“One of the falling angels grabbed my robe,” Aziraphale says. “They couldn’t have dragged me down with their weight alone, I suppose, but… well, I panicked. I meant to cut off their arm, but I changed my mind at the last moment— although I suppose it made no difference to them.”

Crowley deflates like an untied balloon. It’s almost endearing, the way Aziraphale seems to believe this is a dark secret worth hiding from him. But no: the memory of it shames gentle Aziraphale, and that alone makes it important enough to take seriously.

“That cloth,” he realizes out loud. “That thing they choked me with—”

“I’m so, so sorry, Crowley, I—”

“Stop apologizing, you idiot— that was your robe?”

Aziraphale shrinks, just a little. “That was before I received my first corporation, you see. So, er, I suppose that makes it… rather more potent than most holy artifacts.”

A demon had almost throttled Crowley with a shred of Aziraphale’s clothes. Crowley thinks of burnt hands, blisters on an angry red cheek…

“Oh,” he says. “They must have— they must have learned you were the angel on Earth, when we did our— thing.”

Aziraphale nods. “Yes. I… I suppose I’m rather easier to seek vengeance upon than God, aren’t I? It does make sense.”

Crowley seizes Aziraphale by his stupid tartan bowtie and drags him forward until they’re nose to nose, and snarls: “You did nothing wrong, angel. You hear me? That demon was a wanker with a grudge who couldn’t handle the consequences of their own choices, and you were just the closest thing to grab on to.”

Aziraphale simply looks up at him. He’s remarkably relaxed for someone who could be chokeslammed into the floor at any moment. His mouth does work uselessly for a few moments, allowing Crowley about two seconds of blessed familiarity, but when he actually uses his voice what comes out is “Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley releases him without quite meaning to and steps back, startled. Thrilled, yes, but strangely afraid, because even this is much faster than what he’s used to.

“Right,” he says lamely. “Well. Drinks?”

Aziraphale beams, and Crowley nearly passes out. “That sounds lovely.”

* * *

“So,” Crowley asks later, once he’s drunk enough not to have an existential crisis over it, “what exactly did you do to that demon?”

Aziraphale blinks, mouth falling open as he presumably tries to remember. “Oh! Oh, well, I set a little trap for them— you gave me the idea for it, actually, it was— it was quite a good idea.”

Crowley preens a little under this praise. “Really? What did you do?”

“Well,” Aziraphale says cheerfully, “I just remembered— it seemed so strange to me, that you didn’t seem to know where holy water comes from, do you? And if— if you don’t know then— probably you don’t know what it is, really? And you’re much, much smarter than all the other demons, so surely they don’t know either, right?”

Crowley chokes a little on his drink at the mention of holy water, though not very much, as he rather got the impression that permanent destruction was involved.

“You see, holy water is… is a…. A replica? A facsimile!” Aziraphale smiles as the word comes to him. “It’s a, a facsimile of… of baptism, you see. Baptismal water. It’s, it’s supposed to be like… like a reminder, or something. And— well, you know, you met them, they were rather… they weren’t afraid to get all close and personal, you know?”

“So you took a bath in holy water?”

“No! No, that would have been— you can sense holy water, can’t you? Surely they’d see through that! But baptismal water— I didn’t know if it would have the same effect, of course, but it couldn’t hurt, right? So I just hopped on over to Jordan.”

Crowley stares at him dumbly for a moment. Then, in a rush of understanding, it comes to him:

“Th-the Jordan! The river! Babies!”

“Yes!” Aziraphale cries. “Just have to lure them into the river! I’m sure I could get baptismal water anywhere, there are churches here in London you know, but a demon tends to see that coming—”

“Yeah, ‘s true.”

“So I lured them into the river and smote them while they were distracted.” Aziraphale makes a sad sort of grimace. “Awful sounds, they made— I think maybe the river alone would have destroyed them, it sounded— quite painful. I’m glad you didn’t follow me, my dear.”

Crowley means to agree verbally, but mostly just manages several incoherent noises of assent. He tries to gather his wits long enough to point out that Aziraphale could easily have confided this plan to Crowley while still keeping him safe, but the angel goes on as he’s thinking:

“I must have seen you too, you know,” he says, sounding more sober than he is. “Falling. I saw them all. I think of it and I think that you must have been one of those— those faceless angels screaming, and I…”

“Listen, angel, the actual Fall wasn’t— wasn’t really—”

“Oh, that’s not the point!” Aziraphale wails. “I’m just saying— perspective, you know? Back then it was just Lucifer and a whole crowd of other angels, but now— now it’s not just a crowd, because you were in it, somewhere, even if I never saw you. And all this, seeing them again, it just reminds me. I don’t like sleeping.”

“Wh… What does that have to do with anything?”

“Because I dream. I dream that… that you were the one whose arm I didn’t cut off, and that I kicked you into the void and caused all that awful pain— I know you hate Heaven, dear, I know you would have hated being an angel all this time, but I know you hate being a demon too and I just—”

Aziraphale’s words dissolve into useless noises, and something in Crowley breaks. He shouldn’t worry, his angel, he shouldn’t let Crowley make him so sad over something that never happened, and bugger it Crowley is too drunk for this.

“It could have been you,” Aziraphale goes on, while Crowley shoos the alcohol out of his system. “It could have been you trying to avenge yourself upon me, and I would’ve destroyed you, and left me— some other me— left your best friend alone, forever.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, and then licks his lips because the taste in his mouth is really something awful. “You need to sober up.”

“No,” Aziraphale answers petulantly. “Oh, very well, but… You forgive me, right? You’ll say you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, angel,” Crowley says. “Now come on. You’re only making yourself more miserable.”

Aziraphale groans, covering his eyes. Crowley watches as the wine leaves him, but allows him to hide behind his hand for as long as he needs after it’s gone. It hurts, to see him wracked with such guilt, and over something so stupid.

“I’m sorry, my dear.”

“If you apologize one more time—”

“I did cut your arm off,” Aziraphale interrupts. His hand shifts to massage his brow, but his eyes are still closed and Crowley knows why. “Every time I said we weren’t friends. Every time I said you’re a demon, that’s what you do— six thousand years we’ve been friends, and for six thousand years I’ve cut your only lifeline and watched you fall, over and over.”

“I understood,” Crowley says at once. “I mean it hurt, ’m not gonna lie to you, but I’m stronger than that. It was never anything a drink and a nap couldn’t fix, angel.”

“You deserved better.”

Something in Aziraphale’s voice frightens Crowley. He speaks as though what he says is immutable fact, and even if it is the dead certainty in his tone catches Crowley off-guard.

“It’s no use breaking free if you die immediately or spend the rest of your life a nervous wreck,” he says. “You were afraid, I was afraid— you told me I was going too fast, so I slowed down and now we’re on the same page. It worked out. How much does it matter?”

Aziraphale is silent for a moment. Then:

“I think I’m a bad person, Crowley.”

Crowley doesn’t think about it; he slides off the sofa and dives for Aziraphale’s hand, kneeling where the angel sits.

“You’re not,” Crowley says, mustering all the conviction he has. “You’re better than some humans, angel, and they were worth saving too— even from demons with friends or good deeds to their name or whatever. Ligur used to be like you— he looked at animals, at their instincts and their hunger and their fear and said hm, something’s missing, and helped give them emotion. And now he doesn’t exist, and I haven’t regretted it for a second.”

Aziraphale says nothing, doesn’t even look at him. He doesn’t want to be comforted, Crowley realizes, a bad habit he’s long ago acknowledged in himself.

“You’re done calling me evil, right?” he asks. “Then listen. I would have done it. I’d still do it, right now, without hesitation, and you wouldn’t even think to tell me it was vicious or cruel. You would have understood.”

Aziraphale meets his gaze then, impassively. “I would have thrown you down from Heaven myself.”

“And you’d still be my best friend,” Crowley says fiercely. “You’d still be everything you are to me now, angel. You’d still be a good person.”

Aziraphale squeezes his hand, and his expression shifts to something unhappy and uncertain. It’s not much, but it’s progress.

“You didn’t cut their arm off. You could have, and it wouldn’t have changed anything, but you didn’t. You’ve always chosen to be—gentle, to be kind. Didn’t we just get done figuring out that our choices are more important than our natures?”

The silence following Crowley’s question stretches on for a moment, and then two—long enough for Crowley to recognize the growing shine in Aziraphale’s eyes and duck his head in abashment.

_Too fast. You go too fast for me, Crowley._

“You’ve always been a better person than I am, my dear.”

Crowley chokes on nothing. “No?!”

“We’re not going over this again, Crowley.” Aziraphale sighs, and begins to idly rub circles into Crowley’s hand with his thumb. “I... You make me better, Crowley. Protecting me, and comforting me, and spending time with me and enjoying it—it makes me want to be better. For you.”

Crowley swallows. “I—it’s all selfishness, angel. It’s what I want.”

“I know. And I don’t think you know how incredible that is.” Aziraphale barks out a laugh, one that sounds a little wet and perhaps slightly unhinged. “We—we’re quite a pair, aren’t we? I suppose we’ll just—just have to stay together.”

This isn’t any different than _we’re on our own side now_, but still something in Crowley leaps. He clutches Aziraphale’s hand tighter.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I’ll just—have to remind you, every time you forget.”

“And I you.”

“Nngh. Yeah.”

Silence descends over them. Crowley is still on his knees, clutching Aziraphale’s hand, but he finds that he doesn’t want to leave.

“Lunch,” he says suddenly, somehow managing to trip over a single word. “I, uh. I think I promised you lunch, last time we spoke. Properly.”

Aziraphale, to his elation and mortal terror, does not take the opportunity to blush and dither and return to some semblance of familiarity. His answering smile is much too easy and warm.

“That would be lovely, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I'm happy with this: the actual fight wasn't supposed to be the point, but maybe I'll rewrite it and include more fall-out later. For now I'm just happy to have finished something :) Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> the actual conversation which was the whole point of writing this fic coming next time lol


End file.
